Rexanne Becnel by The Bride of Rosecliffe Page B

Depressing her further still. Despite the cold, spring had arrived. The seasons changed, often with much struggle between them. So were
the seasons of her life changing. She’d remained a child, an innocent, for far longer than most. But now she must make the painful transition to womanhood.
    She must do what she knew was right.
    “I shall leave you now,” Newlin said. In a moment he was gone and she was alone—and colder even than before. She sat down, huddled, actually, with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. She stared out at the sea and thought about Owain.
    Perhaps time had softened him. Perhaps, despite the bad temper of his youth, he had matured into a better sort of man.
    But then, there was still Tomas’s death to explain. While no one could prove Owain had been involved, she’d heard Dewey’s suspicions and seen her uncle’s grim expression. How could she possibly marry a man she suspected to be a murderer?
    “Josselyn?”
    For the second time that afternoon Josselyn jumped in alarm. But this time it truly was cause for alarm, for this time it was not Newlin. The voice was too low. The shadow that fell across her was too long. Fearful—aware—she lifted her head to find Randulf Fitz Hugh standing but three paces to her right. How had he come so near without her hearing him?
    “Is aught amiss with you?” he asked, while his eyes devoured her. She shivered with sudden awareness. She’d glimpsed that look in his eyes before, the hungry look of a man wanting a woman. Those other times, however, he’d quickly quashed it, and they’d gone on to speak of nouns and verbs, of adjectives and sentence structure. Cymraeg was a complex language and, to his credit, he seemed intent on mastering it. Whatever desires he might have for a woman—for her—he’d kept reasonably well hidden.
    But he wasn’t hiding it now.
    She stood, her knees shaking, her heart racing. “I am fine. I thought I was alone.”

    “As did I,” he answered, stepping closer.
    Josselyn moved back a pace, then two. Tension fairly crackled in the air between them, and she knew she must get away before it erupted. The worst part of it, however, was that the tension was not solely of his making. That was what terrified her most.
    For his part, Rand felt anything but terrified. And though he recognized the fear in Josselyn’s eyes, he saw also her awareness of him. Had it been only fear she felt, he could have controlled the lust that surged within him. But that awareness, that spark that stretched to the breaking point between them, was too compelling. Too powerful. So he stepped forward, caught her by the arms, and held her still before him. He would not let her flee, not until they explored the source of this awareness they shared.
    “What—What do you think you’re doing?”
    She tried to shrug out of his grasp but he wouldn’t let her. Beneath his hands her arms were slender and strong. And warm. His gloves and her wool garments could not disguise that fact.
    “I wish to learn a new facet of your language, Josselyn. Teach me the words a man says to a woman.” He pulled her a little nearer. “How does a man say ‘your eyes are bluer than the sky’?”
    She stared up at him with those huge blue eyes, stared up at him as if he were a madman. And indeed, he was behaving like one. Where did those words come from? He sounded like a lovesick lad, gushing poetic nonsense when all he really wanted was a quick tumble with a pretty wench. He must still be in the grip of the prodigious quantity of wine he’d consumed last night.
    But her eyes were bluer than the sky. And her hair … “Your hair smells of sunshine. Sunshine and snow.”
    He bent his head and nuzzled her thick, raven-wing locks. “Teach me those words, Josselyn. How do I say ‘I want you’?”
    He heard her soft gasp. He felt the quiver that vibrated
up through her body and sent a responding quiver through his. He knew she considered